


Hold on

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [27]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 3+1, Broken Bones, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt Lambert (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Papa Vesemir, Permanent Injury, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Witchers (The Witcher), Whump, background Lambert/Coën, mild hypothermia, no beta we die like the harshness of the Path during the soft Kaer Morhen winters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “Lambert,” he says quietly. Lambert only groans in response, trying to hide his face in his arms and twitching when the movement jostles his dislocated shoulder.“’m fine,” Lambert mumbles, despite the obvious pain bleeding through his voice. He tries to curl up and fails with a pained gasp the makes Vesemir’s heart clench.“You’re not,” Vesemir tells him as gently as he can. “Let me help.”*3+1. Three times Vesemir looked after his pups. One time they look after him.
Relationships: Eskel & Vesemir (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 33
Kudos: 90
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Hold on

**Author's Note:**

> MORE PAPA VESEMIR. I always need more Papa Vesemir. 
> 
> Today's prompt was "I wish I had never given you a chance." I chose Alt Prompt 2 instead, "I can't lose you too".

“Is he going to die?”

Vesemir jerks awake. He lifts his head, bleary and uncoordinated. With a groan, he rolls his stiff shoulders and tries to dislodge the feeling of exhaustion that has been caught between his eyes for days. He must’ve nodded off; a quick focus on his hearing tells him that dawn is still hours away and everyone else in the keep is deep asleep. Well, except for one.

“Hm?” he asks, not sure what the question was anymore.

“Is Geralt going to die?” Eskel stares at him, eyes wide and his entire body shivering from the cold where it must be creeping up from the stone floor into his bare feet. Vesemir holds out a hand and Eskel obediently steps closer.

“I don’t know,” he confesses, looking down at the tiny shape curled up on the cot next to him. Geralt’s breathing is laboured and unsteady, and even in his sleep he looks like he’s in pain, heartbeat unsteady and fluttering like a bird with a broken wing under Vesemir’s touch. The winters at Kaer Morhen are cold and damp, and Geralt has always had an uncanny knack for picking up any disease he can. Of course, it would be him with the pneumonia. Of course, it would be his life’s flame that is flickering so dangerously, his existence that Vesemir is trying to preserve with such desperation.

 _Dangerous desperation_ , Rennes had told him. _Dangerous to get so attached when they are still so young. Dangerous. You know what will happen, Vesemir. You know he won’t survive the Trials_. Vesemir knows it, knows how this is the final blow that might just shatter his heart, when he has to carry Geralt’s corpse out of the caves after the Trials have wreaked havoc on him and destroyed this fragile body of his.

And yet.

Just this once, he hopes that the head of their school might be wrong. Geralt looks up to him as if he was his father, more so than any of the other boys, and Vesemir just doesn’t have it in him to turn away and leave him without guidance, without love. Nobody should be left without love – family is determined by far more than blood, after all.

Geralt begins coughing and Vesemir sits up, leans over to hold his tiny body as it is wrecked by coughs that sound so painful he winces just from hearing them. Geralt jerks in his arms, instinctively tries to curl up against him, body tense and tight like a bowstring.

“Shhhhh.” Vesemir rubs his back until the coughing finally begins to subside, and Geralt’s frantic gasps for air level it into more normal, if still laboured breathing. His skin is bright and hot, burning with fever. Vesemir changes the compress on his forehead and rubs some more of Yorick’s salve over his chest, supposedly to help with the infection that has taken hold of his lungs.

He looks up to see Eskel still standing there, eyes wide and hands shaking. Vesemir sighs.

“Come here,” he says, holding out his hand in the boy’s direction again. Eskel approaches hesitantly, eyes trained on Geralt.

“You won’t hurt him by being close,” Vesemir tells him. “Even if he’s asleep, he’ll take comfort from you being here. Come on.”

It’s all the encouragement that Eskel needs to climb onto Vesemir’s lap, very careful not to disturb Geralt’s sleeping form. He curls up, tucked between Vesemir and his best friend. At some point, his hand reaches out to touch Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt shifts a little, but doesn’t wake up, still pulled under by the strength of his fever.

“You’re safe now,” Eskel whispers. “Papa’s here and he’ll look after you.”

He turns to Vesemir, eyes searching his face for the trace of a lie.

“You will, won’t you?” he asks quietly, as if he’s afraid of the answer.

“Of course I will.” Vesemir ruffles his hair and reaches out to smooth a few errant strands away from Geralt’s face, mumbling a soft reassurance when Geralt frowns in his sleep. _For as long as can. For as long as I’m allowed to, until you’ll have to face the Grasses_. Vesemir tries to ignore the way his heart is clenching inside his chest at the thought.

“Can you sing the song again?” Eskel mumbles sleepily. Vesemir smiles. When they were even smaller, sometimes he would sing them songs before bringing them to bed – usually when any of his boys had trouble sleeping. Rennes had admonished him for it, but he had refused to stop, pointing out that a tired and cranky group of little boys the next morning isn’t going to be amusing for anybody.

His singing has never been great, but it doesn’t have to be. He shifts until Eskel lies more comfortably in his arms, before he opens his mouth, singing as quietly as possible. Eskel heaves a sigh, far too big for his little body, and slowly relaxes under the soothing tones, until he is asleep, and his limbs splay out bonelessly in every direction. Geralt’s breathing seems to have eased just the tiniest bit, and Vesemir leans back in his seat again, closing his eyes. He’ll keep them safe. He has to.

*

“Eskel?” Vesemir knocks on the door. “Eskel. Can I come in?”

There is no reply from inside and Vesemir frets for a moment, wondering if he should just leave. Something had been off about Eskel, however, and he know he couldn’t live with himself if he won’t at least _try_ and help. Vesemir presses against the door and finds that it’s unlocked, swinging open under his touch. A good sign, or so he thinks.

Eskel is curled up on his cot under several furs, right in front of the fireplace that has a small fire dancing in it. He isn’t asleep, however, his gaze from a half-lidded golden eye following Vesemir through the room as he approaches.

“Eskel,” Vesemir says again. “Pup. Everything alright?”

Eskel heaves a little sigh and only buries deeper into his furs. Vesemir hesitates. He still isn’t quite used to seeing the new scars on his face, although they look better now, over a year after the injury. Not that he’s had many chances to look at it yet – although he hadn’t expected any of his pups so early, Eskel has returned from the Path that afternoon and gone straight to his room after looking after Scorpion. It isn’t unusual per se – the Witchers are usually tired when they return, and many of them lie down for a nap before the evening, the first truly safe nap they’ve probably had in a while. When Eskel hadn’t come down for dinner, however, Vesemir had begun to grow worried.

“I brought some dinner,” Vesemir says, gesturing at the bread rolls, carrots and jerky on the plate he’s brought along. “You should eat. The way back must’ve been exhausting.”

Eskel just waves his hand from under is covers in a gesture that Vesemir takes to mean ‘leave it here for later’. He is about to follow his pup’s wishes when Eskel moves again, turning around under the furs, and the smell of fresh blood hits Vesemir’s nose. It isn’t overwhelming, but stands out starkly against the rest of the odours in the room nonetheless. Vesemir frowns.

“Eskel-“ It is then that he sees the two drops of fresh blood on his covers, right where his cheek was beforehand, and things finally slot into place.

“Oh, Eskel,” he says softly. He knows how much his son loathes being pitied, but he’ll have to do something to help, cannot just leave him like this. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He is relieved to find that Eskel hasn’t locked the door yet when he returns soon after with a bowl of reheated soup and some salve. Eskel peeks out at him from under the covers, nostrils flaring when he smells the broth.

“I forgot how much the cold must’ve hurt,” Vesemir says quietly. “I’m sorry.” He remembers those icy days last winter when Eskel had barely moved from in front of the fireplace and refused to speak most times even then. The cold on its own makes his scars ache more already, and the dry winter air outside must’ve been torture when he had come up the path to Kaer Morhen this year, causing the most sensitive part of his scars around his lips to break open and bleed a little again.

Eskel pushes back his covers and takes the bowl of soup, carefully eating it spoonful by small spoonful, not an easy task when he can barely move his mouth. Vesemir doesn’t watch and pulls out of a bit of mending instead that he has picked up on the way, waiting patiently for him to finish and clean up whatever soup he has spilled.

“’nks,” Eskel mumbles when he’s done. Vesemir just gives him a little nod, holding out the salve in his direction.

“This might help. Do you want me to do it, or-?”

Eskel releases a deep breath and looks down at his hand, rubbing the tips of his fingers. The smell of the road still clings to him, despite the fresh clothing he’s wearing and the faint smell of soap on his skin. He looks tired and drawn, like this year on the Path had been the longest yet for him. It probably was, Vesemir reflects. At least mentally. He had certainly worried whether his pup would return at all. Eskel looks up at him then, and nods towards the salve, turning a little so he bares his scars in Vesemir’s direction.

Vesemir is careful to keep his touch as light as possible as he spreads it over the right side of Eskel’s face, around the empty eye socket of his. Eskel flinches just a little nonetheless, but gestures for him to go on when Vesemir pauses. Once he is done, Vesemir places his hand on Eskel’s unmarred cheek and pulls him close, pressing his forehead against his.

“Now go get some sleep, pup,” he says. “Geralt and Lambert should be back soon and I’m sure they’ll both be vying for your attention.”

Eskel nods, a crooked little smile appearing on his lips.

“’nks, Pa.” He gives Vesemir’s arms a squeeze with his hands before burying back underneath the covers, this time looking far more relaxed than before. Vesemir ruffles his head, lost for a moment in the memories of a time when the boy in front of him was far younger, far less marked by the years on the Path. He hums the melody of the song he used to sing for them and watches Eskel fall asleep, his features relaxing in the safety of their home.

“Any time, pup. Any time.”

*

Lambert shouldn’t be this light.

It’s all Vesemir can think as he drags his boy down the treacherous slopes of the Killer, through the short bit of forest and then through the gates of Kaer Morhen, up the steps and into the main hall. He puts him down in front of the fire and Lambert mumbles something unintelligible when Vesemir uses the still glowing coals and some fresh wood in the fireplace, together with a well-placed _Igni,_ to warm up the chilly hall. He leaves Lambert for a moment to fetch the medical supplies he’ll need. His pup is still in the same position when he returns, staring sightlessly into the fire.

Vesemir bends over him to survey the damage. Lambert’s leg is clearly broken and one of his shoulders twisted out its socket (the bad shoulder, Vesemir realises with a wince), where he had tried to arrest his fall. Arm might be broken too, or just sprained, and from the way his breaths are painful and flat, he’d wager that Lambert has managed to at least crack some of his ribs. All in all, he can probably count himself lucky, Vesemir reflects, recalling only too well the shattered bodies they carried in from falls on the Killer at least once every few years.

“Lambert,” he says quietly. Lambert only groans in response, trying to hide his face in his arms and twitching when the movement jostles his dislocated shoulder.

“’m fine,” Lambert mumbles, despite the obvious pain bleeding through his voice. He tries to curl up and fails with a pained gasp the makes Vesemir’s heart clench.

“You’re not,” Vesemir tells him as gently as he can. “Let me help.”

“No,” It’s more of a pained mewl than an actual word, and Vesemir feels something inside him break at the sight. Lambert has been teetering on the edge ever since the news of Coën’s death had reached them, and he had returned early from the Path this year, spending most of his evenings drinking and the days either demolishing the training dummies in the yard or running the Killer until he is too exhausted to walk.

“Lambert.” He sighs. He hates seeing his pup like this, broken and hurt, with no care as to his own safety. It reminds him so much of the terrified boy he had taken from his shithead of a father, of the scarred and caustic youth that had emerged from the caves after the Trials. “I’m going to have to push your shoulder back in. It’s going to hurt. You with me, pup? Talk to me.”

Lambert doesn’t answer, but he moves the tiniest bit, allows Vesemir to draw him up in a seating position. He denies any offer of a potion against the pain, but does take a discarded piece of leather to bite on, before Vesemir wrenches his shoulder back into its socket. Lambert gives a muted howl and Vesemir lets him catch his breath before he continues with splinting his leg and wrapping his arm and ribs. Lambert’s groans peter out into soft whimpers by the time he is done and, without thinking, Vesemir pulls him close so that his pup is leaning against him, wrapped in his arms. Lambert seems to want to resist for a moment and Vesemir pulls back, not wanting to force him. Except – suddenly Lambert relaxes and presses his face against Vesemir’s chest, hiding it from his view.

“You sure you don’t want any Swallow?” Vesemir asks him softly. Lambert doesn’t reply, but he take the potion vial when Vesemir offers it to him and downs it, before returning to his position. He is shivering, this time from exhaustion and pain rather than the cold, and Vesemir cards his fingers through his hair, rubs his hand up and down his back in the desperate attempt to give at least some comfort.

“I just want it to stop hurting,” Lambert whispers. His voice is choked and there is a large wet patch on Vesemir’s chest, but he doesn’t mention it.

“I know, pup, I know.” Vesemir keeps holding on to Lambert, as if his touch alone could keep his youngest boy from drowning. Lambert has always been the one least likely to actively seek physical comfort from him, although he is more free with it with his brother. Vesemir’s heart aches when he thinks of all the times he should have been able to hold him, to comfort him when Lambert was little, but hadn’t been able to get through to him. He should have tried harder back then, he thinks, should have been a better father to this headstrong boy of his.

“Just…try and take better care of yourself,” Vesemir says quietly. “I can’t lose you, too. _We_ can’t lose you.” He knows Lambert’s brothers would agree if they were here right now. Lambert only hugs him more tightly, exhausted, in pain, and desperate for some warmth. He drops off into sleep eventually once he is wearing more comfortable clothes and Vesemir has plied him with some more food and drink. Vesemir keeps watching him, humming the same song he has hummed for all of his boys, grieving for the youngest of his pups. He hopes Lambert will find his joy again, eventually, somewhere.

*

Vesemir loves winter, but he hates the cold. Winter is the time when his pups are home and fill the keep with life again, when they swap stories and keep the memories of their School alive. Winter is the time of shared meals, of laugher in front of the fire, of him seeing how his boys have grown each year. Sometimes they come home with their hearts heavy from the Path and he helps to heal them; sometimes they come home with an unexpected piece of happiness they have found on the road and eager to share.

The cold, however, creeps through the walls of the keep and settles in the old stones, almost impossible to dislodge. It creeps through his body, too, sets old wounds twinging, bringing back memories he’d often rather forget. Witchers’ bodies heal far quicker and easier than those of ordinary humans, true, but it doesn’t mean that they are immune from permanent damages, especially not when they have accumulated over the span over several normal human lifetimes. Every one of them carries their own ailments around, usually getting worse in winter – in addition to the usual aches, Eskel’s scars hurt worse, and sometimes he even forgoes his glass eye. Lambert’s shoulder acts up more, and Geralt’s chest aches when the cold northern winds howl around the keep. And Vesemir’s left knee has been broken and twisted one times too many for it to feel completely normal.

It’s especially bad this morning – his room has one of the few glass windows still left in the keep, but one of the panes has splintered somehow and let in the cold winter air from outside. The fact that it’s almost spring and the snow outside has already begun to thaw doesn’t help; the nights are still icy. Vesemir wakes up to feeling pained all over, but the dull ache intensifies into pounding when he swings his feet off his cot, shivering at how cold it is. He stands up and falls back with a gasp, his leg barely able to take his weight. His bad mood only intensifies when he remembers what day it is and for a good long while he just sits on his bed and stares at his hands. It doesn’t take much to remember them coated in the blood of his boys and his brothers.

Vesemir curses and bends over to root around in the chest besides his bed where he keeps his cane for those days when he needs it; even then, it takes him far too long to hobble down into the main hall and kitchen with the aim to build up the fire and fetch himself some breakfast. Lambert is already seated at the table, frowning at his food. His frowns deepens when he looks up and sees Vesemir slowly making his way through the door.

“Wait. Old man.” He jumps up from his seat when Vesemir ambles towards the kitchen. “You can sit down if you want, I can get you what you need. Do you want your usual breakfast?” Lambert hovers around him, clearly unwilling to force him to sit down, but also equally determined to help him.

“I’m not that old yet, pup. I can do it myself.” Vesemir pushes forwards, but Lambert doesn’t budge. On any other day he might have begun arguing, but he doesn’t have the energy right now. Not today.

“You’re positively ancient, compared to us.” Lambert’s gaze is piercing. “And you’ve spent a good part of your life trying to take care of us. So. Let me return the favour for once?”

“What favour?” Eskel chooses that exact moment to wander into the hall. He takes one single look at Vesemir and the cane in his hands before coming over.

“The knee again?” he asks, face contorted in a sympathetic grimace.

“Windowpane broke, let in the cold tonight,” Vesemir admits. “It’s…slightly uncomfortable.”

“I bet.” Eskel frowns. “If you want to, you can sit down? I was about to fetch something to eat anyway.”

“That’s what I said.” Lambert sighs. “Let us help, Pa.”

In the face of two of his boys insisting they can help him, Vesemir begrudgingly decides that he can give his knee a rest for a change. He limps over to the bench next to the table and sits down at the edge, manoeuvres his body around so he can prop up his leg. At least his boys aren’t hovering around him – Lambert returns to his breakfast as soon as he and Eskel come back from the kitchen, bearing food for the three of them in both hands. Geralt joins them just as Eskel starts on his second bowl of kasha.

The conversation is quiet, but still flows easily between the three Witchers. Vesemir knows he should be grateful for what he still has, that his three boys, at least, are still here and make it back to the keep almost every winter. But he still feels his mood blacken even further, aggravated by the pain in his knee, until he is all but scowling into his breakfast. His sons notice, of course they do, but they also have enough experience with such moods both in themselves and him that the know not to bother him over it. They all exchange glances, however, and Vesemir has the distinct feeling that they are planning _something_. It only makes him scowl harder, all the way through to the end of their meal. His sons excuse themselves quickly, tidying up the table before he can even utter a word and leaving him in front of the large fire they have build up in the hearth, to chase away the chill that seems to have taken residence in his bones today.

Despite the sunshine outside, the cold wind whipping across the courtyard hits him like an icepick in the knee, making him clench his teeth in pain. He ignores the sensation and limps across the courtyard to the small tower they use during the remembrance at Midinváerne. Vesemir opens the door, expecting to find a dark, cold room, and already mentally preparing himself for the challenge that lighting all the candles and meditating in this space is going to present.

It is not what he finds when he opens the door.

Instead, warmth greets him from a fire in the hearth that had remained unused since Midinváerne, and all the candles have been lit except for a few. His boys stand in the middle of the room, waiting for him next to a large bear pelt on the floor. Vesemir pulls up short and stares, not quite sure what to say.

“We did remember what day it is today,” Eskel says. His voice is quiet and almost subdued, but there is something vulnerable in his eyes.

“We thought you might like some company,” Geralt adds. “Prepared a little. But we didn’t light all of them.”

“Yeah. We can leave, too, if you’d rather be alone.” Lambert reaches up and scratches the scars on his head.

Vesemir steps closer, looks at the candles they haven’t lit. They don’t have names assigned to them, not really, but over the years they’ve acquired them nonetheless – they always arrive at the same place when they recite the names, after all. Ardyn’s candle is still unlit, he sees. So is Rennes’. And those of the Wolves he was closest to, who all perished during the sacking. Vesemir takes a burning piece of wood from Geralt’s hand, but doesn’t move to light the candles yet.

“Do you want us to leave?” Lambert asks.

“No.” Vesemir’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “No. Stay.”

“Okay.” Eskel walks up to stand beside him but doesn’t touch. His brothers array themselves around him, as if to form a shield against the cold and the oh-so-familiar grief that has taken hold of Vesemir’s heart.

Vesemir lifts the burning branch in his hand and begins lighting the last candles one by one, pausing after each to say their names out loud. The names bring back memories and he so desperately tries to recall the positive times, the joy they had managed to carve out even in a place like this, rather than how he had found them all dead and dying when he returned to the keep so many decades ago.

Eskel, Lambert and Geralt remain quiet all throughout, the light of the candles reflecting in their eyes.

When Vesemir is done, he slowly makes his way over to the pelt in front of the hearth and lowers his aching body to the floor. Taking on the meditating position hurts, so much so that he decides to sit differently, with his leg stretched out in front of him, for the time being. But sit he does, consciously drawing in a breath and lowering his walls against the emotions cursing through him. _Work through them, rather than against them,_ the voice of his old mentor whispers in his mind. A hard and laborious task, but he knows he will be better for it in the end.

A weight leans against his back, and without looking or changing his position, Vesemir knows it’s Geralt. His heartbeat has always been the slowest of them all since the second round of Trials and Vesemir would recognise it anywhere. There is a soft rustle and he can smell Lambert brushing against his right side and, shortly after, Eskel against his left.

Their touch is hesitant at first, to give him room to move away if he wants. When Vesemir just sighs and relaxes further, they move in closer, all in their own meditating positions, backs and legs touching as they surround him. Their presence is warm and solid, reminding him of what he has left rather than everything that has been lost. It doesn’t lessen the pain, not really, but it dampens its impact, soothes the ragged edges of his soul and heart.

Geralt is the one who starts humming it first, the song he used to sing to them when they were little and not so little, yearning for the comfort of a father. Vesemir smiles to himself and he leans back until his head knocks against Geralt’s, reaches out to ruffle Eskel’s and Lambert’s hair.

“Thank you,” he says, very quietly.

“Any time, Papa. Any time.”


End file.
